“Pile in, Lochinvar. You deserve your name,” cried Sydney. And Jan obeyed, wondering if she were dreaming, and if this offhand, genial boy could be morose Sydney.
“Poor little doglums!” Sydney went on. “You hold him well, Jan. Say, why aren’t more girls like you? You’re straight girl, ready to cry over that dog this minute—I’m no end sorry for him, but I don’t feel teary. And you hold him as if he were your youngest child, and you had taken care of six of his brothers before him. Now that’s girl for you! Yet you don’t care a bent copper for what any one thinks, and you make yourself look like a tramp—hair flying, hat off, books any old place, and you get mud on your dress from the poor beggar, and you drive down Fifth Avenue, and it never crosses your mind to consider whether you look respectable or not. You burst through a tough crowd without fear of it, or of comment. And all that’s not only straight boy, but it’s a mighty decent sort of fellow at that. I never saw a girl like you—you’re the right stuff, Miss Lochinvar, and I didn’t know how appropriate the name was when I christened you.”
“I’ve been brought up with boys—Fred’s your age, and we’re chums—and then there are all the others,” stammered Jan, hardly knowing how to receive this outburst of most acceptable compliments. “I guess there are lots of girls like me, if you know them. Gwen’s the right sort, too, and Dorothy Schuyler, and I know ever so many at home.”
“Gwen’s well enough,” said Sydney, with brotherly indifference. “I don’t know Dorothy Schuyler. Gladys makes me very weary. I wonder if she’s going to come this airy-fairy business all her days? Here’s the doctor’s. Give me the patient while you get out.”
“I’m afraid to move him for fear it will hurt him. I’ll get out without taking hold—I don’t need my hands,” said Jan. But Sydney steadied her elbow, and she thanked him with a bright smile.
The doctor was at home, fortunately. He was one who loved his profession and loved his patients. He handled the little waif the children had brought to him as tenderly as he would have touched the best-blooded dog, strapping him down carefully, and setting the broken leg expeditiously and successfully. As he worked he heard the story of the dog’s rescue through Jan’s wild onslaught, and he smiled approvingly at the girl who loved those whom the gentle saint of Assisi called “our little brothers,” and who dared for their sake. When the work was done he refused his fee, saying that he was glad to contribute his skill to the little dog who had fared ill at the hands of men.
“Are you going to keep him?” asked the doctor.
Jan referred the question to Sydney with a glance that betrayed her longing to do so.
“Oh, yes. We’re going to keep him, and put flesh on these poor ribs of his. And we ought to call him Andromeda, because Janet here rescued him from the dragon,” said Sydney.
“But Andromeda was a beautiful girl,” objected Jan.